


Mixed Connections

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Bullying, M/M, Non-graphic depictions of violence, Suicide mentions, Swearing, Telepathy, negative self-talk, pining Jeremy, post-squip brain problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: The Squips are gone, but the neural network between Rich and Jeremy remains, at least partially.  Rich is getting bursts of Jeremy's thoughts and emotions, and he doesn't know how to disconnect, or even how to distinguish where his mind stops and Jeremy's begins.





	1. Chapter 1

Rich is stupid. He doesn't know facts or studies or any of that academic fuckery. Documentaries make him bored, and reading anything longer than a text message makes him go cross-eyed. For christ’s sake, he can't even spell words like _friends_ or _beliefs_. Lucky thing he hardly has any of either. It's just a really excellent fucking stroke of luck. It's just like whatever. A shit storm. 

Genuine knowledge be damned, Rich is sure he remembers hearing or reading something somewhere about dogs, or maybe it was rats, getting shoved in a cage with an electric floor sending shocks up through them. And at first they'd freak the fuck out, because that shit hurts, but after a while of jumping around and trying to escape, they'd just lie down and take it. They wouldn't even twitch anymore. Electricity could fry them from the inside out, and nobody would be able to tell from looking at them. 

Rich can relate. 

He can relate big time. 

It’s like, towards the end of the whole Squip ordeal, he was that dog or that rat ( _definitely_ rat) who'd figured out that there was no escaping the onslaught of punishment, and so he'd just hunkered down to take it. That's not to say that he hadn't stuck strict to his regimen of rules and compliance, but it hadn't even been about avoiding pain by that point. It’d just been who he was. 

Until he _wasn't_. 

Because Rich in the hospital? Rich with burn scars and a blessedly empty brain? Nothing. Just an empty a vessel waiting to be filled. 

His burns had stung and itched. He'd been calm. The lights had hurt his eyes. He'd been calm. The silence had screamed at him from inside his aching skull, and he'd been calm. He'd been happily happy and calm-calm-calm. 

Jeremy had opened his eyes…. 

Confusion rushing in like a water pipe bursting, or shit exploding out of a diseased ass crack. 

Guilt had followed, but guilt at what? At hurting the other boy? At putting him through all the same Squip BS that Rich had been buried under for the last two years?

“Feels like a part of yourself is missing,” Rich had said. Some people talked to cope. His headache had doubled in the space of seconds, but at least that hadn't been as bad as the third and fourth degree burns, or as stifling as the full body cast that kept him from moving. 

Headphones and weed smell and fluffy dandruff hair— Michael had entered. Not unusual, except Rich had been hit with a wave of shame, and for _what?_. It wasn't like he had anything to be ashamed of when it came to Michael Mell, who was scary right now, but also goddamned hot (in a friend type way). He just wished that Michael would hug him, and things would be okay, except _no he did not_. There was something off about that thought, not like the hours spent lying in his hospital bed realizing that he was bi, realizing that he was sorry for burning that house down, and realizing that he didn't know much else about the real Rich Goranski. 

Rich had let Michael know about the bisexuality thing, just in case there was something to the part of his brain that suddenly found dorky glasses and antisocial tendencies high-key attractive. It was good to keep all of one’s options open while learning to be a person again. 

——————- 

Rich is an idiot. 

He's sitting in math class, and he can't concentrate. Nothing new there. He couldn't concentrate in classes before he got the Squip, and now it's even worse. His only option is to become an alcoholic like his father. If he pickles his liver before he turns eighteen, not graduating from high school won't matter that much. Either that, or he can get a wealthy girlfriend, or even a wealthy boyfriend. It's just a matter of finding someone who digs scars. His scars are hot. He can do that. The real Rich Goranski has a can-do attitude.

The sun is shining outside the classroom window, and there is hope. Christine Canigula has even offered to teach Rich math after school, explaining that she doesn't understand it either, but if she has to learn the material in order to impart it on to him, she thinks she’ll be able to motivate herself to do it. It's like being part of a play, and memorizing everybody else's lines along with your own, so you’ll be there to catch your cast mates when they fall. 

Christine is the nicest and best person in the world. Also, she has the benefit of not being Michael. Dating Michael would just be weird. 

 

Rich scowls up at the ceiling, like it might tell him where all the freaky Michael thoughts are coming from. They aren't real Rich Goranski opinions. Like sure, Michael’s warm, and Michael smells good, and looking into Michael’s eyes feels like coming home, but he's _Michael_ , who he's known ~~forever~~ at least tangentially since middle school, and never been into like that. 

Rich shifts in his seat. The inside of his cheek is hurting. He scratches his neck to try and distract himself from it. It's just really hurting a lot, like he's got a small animal in his mouth eating away at it. Rich runs his tongue over the painful spot, finding the skin smooth and unbroken. He turns on his phone camera, and stretches his mouth open with his fingers, trying to get a better look inside. 

“Might I suggest a better angle for a selfie?” the math teacher sneers, as she snatches Rich’s phone. The class laughs. 

“Might I suggest a better angle for your… um…” Rich’s mouth goes dry. He tries to think of what the Squip would have him say. Something lewd, but not so lewd that he couldn't play innocent after. “Your… glasses!” Rich finishes. 

Fail. It's a dumb comment. He should’ve told the teacher that he looked good from every angle, and left it at that. That's what his Squip would’ve told him. 

More laughter, at Rich, not with him. His teacher sighs as if she is weary of this cruel world. 

“I'll return this upon receiving a letter from your parents acknowledging you were using it inappropriately in class,” his teacher says. 

Rich is never going to get his phone back. 

But Michael is good. He's very good. He might well be the only good thing in the world. 

Except for Christine. She's good too. So cute. So pretty. 

What the hell?

After class, Rich passes Brooke and Jeremy in the hall. Brooke is handing Jeremy a tissue, and telling him in a hushed voice, that chewing up the inside of his mouth until he starts to bleed is not a healthy way of dealing with stress. 

Rich walks a little faster, but he can't outrun the way his face is heating up. It's not like the chewing is on purpose. 

—————————-

If it were possible to have an IQ in the negative numbers, Rich would. He's a complete and total goddamned ingrate. 

He's sitting at lunch with Chloe, Brooke, and Christine, thinking about how terrible he is. He was fine earlier, but now he can't focus, not even on Christine talking about Greek morality plays, which are the most interesting thing in the world (???????). Chloe is too close to him. She's nice, she's cool, she’s chill, and she's _too close_. Her breath is warm against his ear, and he's pretty sure he's going to die. He bolts into the bathroom to throw up. Chloe is still too close. He splashes his face with water, and it's like she's still there. 

Another splash. Rich rubs the water out of his eyes. He isn't even bothered by Chloe. Sure, she comes on pretty strong, but that’s worked in Rich’s favor once or twice. He looks himself over in the mirror. He sees a guy in a muscle shirt, tattoos distorted by burn scars, so it looks like they’re melting off his body. His muscles are still there, but he's regaining some of that freshman year pudge. The zit under his mouth is reassuring. He thinks he could still get together with Chloe again if he really wanted to. He's not sure of he wants to. 

_Chloe’s hand is warm on his wrist, and she's less scary now that he's got control of his breathing. They’re friends. She's just giving him advice._

Rich blinks. 

Chloe's not there. Why would she be? This is the boys bathroom. He rubs his wrist, which she hadn't been touching. She hadn't even been siting next to him when he bolted out. 

She'd been next to Jeremy. 

In the mirror, Rich’s eyes are bluer than he remembers them being. 

When the door creaks open, Rich knows without looking who it is. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Hey,” he squeaks out. Under old management, he'd be electrocuted for sounding like that. 

“Hey,” Jeremy answers.

Rich is worried about Jeremy. 

Rich is worried. 

Rich is worried about Rich. Why did he run away like that?

“Um…” Jeremy says. This is awkward. He comes up besides Rich, and washes his hand. He doesn't pee, which means he has no good reason to be here. “You doing okay? You seemed kinda—-kinda not?” 

Rich swallows hard. “It's just Chloe, y’know?” 

A jolt. Jeremy looks grim. “Yeah. I know.” Then he forces a smile. “I think she's… she's maybe okay. She gave me some concealer the other day. I think that makes me officially friend-zoned.” 

“Either that or she wishes you’d disappear.” says Rich. 

Ouch. 

“I mean,” Rich amends, “I don't get why dudes hate the friend-zone. It's like, dude, you’ve got a friend. You’re in the zone!” 

Rich’s spirits lift. Rich is a really funny guy. Surprisingly likable. His lisp is a trustworthy lisp. Rich would be a good person to get into the friend zone with. But he'd better play it cool, and not come on too strong to… himself? Himself! He has a lot of history with… himself. Shit. Shit shit shit. 

“I'm into the friend zone,” says Jeremy. “Especially when girls keep… keep… like keep cat pictures on their phone.”

What a stupid thing to say. Cat pictures! Can Jeremy be any more of an idiot? And he'd stuttered over the word _keep_ , the fucking ingrate. He deserves to be shocked. He deserves to die. 

( _What??_ )

“Nobody actually likes you,” Rich hears himself saying. Jeremy winces. It hurts, but he deserves it. He deserves to hurt. 

Jeremy backs up into the wall, but then he squares his shoulders. He doesn't have to deal with this. “What the hell, Rich?” 

Rich is off. Something isn't quite right with him since the Squip. He's not necessarily wrong about Jeremy, considering Jeremy is basically human slime, but something is messed up with Rich too. 

“I'm serious,” Jeremy says. “I came here to check on you. Something's up, and if you can tell anybody what it is then you can tell me.” 

Rich covers his ears. He's pathetic and he's messing this up. He should never try to stage an intervention again. He should just let everybody slowly descend into insanity, because it's not like he’s good enough or smart enough to do anything about it. 

“I need you to be quiet,” Rich spits out through gritted teeth. 

Jeremy nods. His eyes are wide. He doesn't know what to do. Maybe he should call Michael. He should definitely call Michael, and also Jake. Maybe Michael can get the Red. Besides, he trusts Michael, and Rich trusts Jake, so that's what he's going to do. 

“I told you to shut up!” Rich shouts. “You're just… you’re just… why are you so fucking terrible? Everybody hates you! Don't you know that? I hate you so fucking much!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Rich's dad not being a good person, an anti-gay slur, and Rich doing things he really shouldn't on the internet.

**Freshman Year**

Rich’s dad is drunk tonight, but not mean-drunk, and not even sad-drunk. He's having a creative-drunk night, which means that he's decorating hats. He's got hundreds of them, wide-brimmed dollar store sombreros, which he reimagines with a hot glue gun and cheap plastic toys. There's one depicting the apocalypse, with a cotton mushroom cloud in the center, and a giant windup spider eating a mutilated toy soldier. There's another one covered in plastic babies doing everything that babies shouldn't, like driving cars and killing people. Rich sneaks down the stairs to get a soda, slippers on to muffle his slow footsteps, only allowing himself to unclench his jaw when he discovers his dad hard at work. Then he grins, and gives his dad a thumbs up. He won't be dangerous tonight. 

“What’s this one about?” Rich asks.

“Sexual liberation.” 

Rich comes up behind his dad to take a closer look at the hat. It's covered in plastic zebras and pigs. Sometimes it's better not to analyze. Besides, his dad doesn't care about sexual liberation anyway. He hates fags. 

“It’s cool,” Rich says. 

His dad makes a vague gesture with his hand, like he's trying to shoo away an insect. He takes another gulp of his beer. In a few hours, Rich will make sure that his dad lies down on the piss-stained couch, or his equally piss-stained bed, always on his side and not his back. Rich saw that in a picture on a wikihow article that he didn't read because it was too long and confusing. 

There’s nothing else to say, so Rich walks gingerly over the scattering of plastic figurines on the living room rug, and goes back upstairs. What to do now? He could do homework, but he definitely isn't going to. He could update the picture on his Tinder profile with something that is less obviously a stolen photo of a male underwear model, but the thing is, he's kind of attached to that model, ‘cause he's been using him for a while now. He could play video games, or draw, but he's been doing too much of both. Not having any friends or any motivation to do anything useful means Rich has a lot of free time to draw and play video games. It’s not even fun anymore, though given the choice between that and crouching in a corner, fending off his dad with a chair while he goes batshit, Rich would definitely choose the video games. 

Rich signs onto the chat group for Model UN. Some guys are talking about boring UN stuff, like countries or whatever. Rich not in Model UN, but he got into the chat by pretending to be a member from Maine, who had a cousin with a friend in Jersey, and was also a really sexy girl, and now he uses his hard earned place to keep tabs on Jake Dillinger, who told him he was pretty, and then told him all about his favorite pizza toppings. It makes Rich think that if he ever got to hang with Jake in person, maybe they'd eat pizza and complain about parents, and then things would be okay. 

Jake isn't on tonight, so Rich signs back out. He doesn't care about those other UN nerds.

There's a glimmer of hope for Rich and Jake. 

Rich talked to this kid, Dustin, who knows this guy, who has these drugs that make you cooler and smarter. It's just a matter of raising the money, then Rich can have them too, and then he can have happiness and a social life. He's linked up a PayPal to his Tumblr, but for some reason nobody wants to buy him illegal drugs, even though his post about it was funny (he thinks) and refreshingly honest (spelling errors be damned). 

Rich clicks on a few more websites. A while of of internet nothing doesn't bring up anything worth doing, so Rich ends up on YouTube, watching car videos (cool), then cat videos (not that cool), then video compilations of uplifting Mr. Rogers quotes (patently uncool). 

It scratches an itch, though, listening to some old guy talk about how everyone is worthwhile. Rich just wishes he could be a part of everyone, instead of stuck in this weird limbo all the time.

At midnight, he checks his PayPal. Still no money. Then he goes to put his dad to bed. He reaches into his pocket, and takes out his credit card. He's going to hurt for this later, but it doesn't matter. If everything goes well, Rich will be a different person by then. He'll be somebody who can take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying, consider taking the time to comment.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeremy can't take it. Rich smashes his head against the wall, and laughs at the pain that explodes in his own skull, falling back onto the ground. Jeremy grunts and takes a few steps, stumbling at the perimeter of the room. For a second he straightens, glaring down at Rich. Then he gets out, hand pressed against his forehead. 

Rich is too dizzy to stand, so he doesn't. He sits on the grimy floor until the bell goes off, then he dusts himself off and stumbles to class, carrying his headache with him. Maybe Jeremy can take it after all. 

It's a mess, though. A fucking brain trip. Rich spends intro to poetry feeling sleepy and sick to his stomach, wondering why the poetry teacher is trying to teach him how to dissect worms, until he realizes she isn't. She's definitely talking about poetic stuff, but it’s staticky, like a car radio station that's fading out as you cross state lines, one that's turning into another station completely. 

On the way out of the class, Rich feels a hand on the back of his neck. He jumps, and whirls around to see who it is, but nobody is there. Still, it's warmer and gentler than an invisible, ghostly touch has any right to be. 

“Hey!” 

Rich walks faster, but Christine catches up to him. She touches his wrist, and her fingers are cooler than the invisible ones, which are near Rich’s waist now. 

“Hey, Rich! Rich?” 

“Why’re you talking to me?” Rich asks. 

“What, is it against the law now? Do I have to be on the lookout for the talking to Rich police?What's up? Are we still on for math tonight? I'm really excited for it. It's like, I think maybe all this number stuff is within my grasp, you know? I'm going to rock it this time. _We’re_ going to rock it!” 

“I suck at math,” Rich reminds her. 

“I know! That's a key part of our plan, remember? I have to figure it out, or we’re both doomed! I'd never willfully doom another person.” 

“You doomed the entire school once,” Rich teases. 

“I don't follow.” Christine scrunches up her face like she _does_ sort of follow, but doesn't want to. Rich scrutinizes her. His Squip isn't on to feed him some compliment about her legs or her eyes or how she'd look cute with a tail.

“You’re really something else. You know that?” 

“I didn't almost doom the school. That wasn't me. I don't go around blaming _you_ for all that.” 

“I'm kind of off,” Rich admits. “And I don't want Michael to figure out why.” 

“Michael?” 

A short laugh. “The guy who won't stop hanging all over me, like constantly?” 

“Um…”

“I just don't want him to figure out what's up before I figure it out myself.” 

“I don't think you have to worry about him hanging all over you, considering he _doesn't_. That's good news, right? No Michael! Plenty of time to figure out whatever you want!” 

Rich shakes his head to clear it. Christine is right, of course. Even with everything that they've gone through, Michael Mell is wary around him, as well he might be. 

“So Jeremy didn't tell you what happened?” Rich asks. 

“With Michael?” 

“With me.” 

“Did something happen?” 

“Shouldn’t tell you before I figure out what's up.” 

“Okay!” Christine says, brightness a little forced. “You do that. In fact, I definitely want to know what's up, when you figure it out. We’re friends now, right? And friends share their pressing personal secrets and dilemmas. I'm down for being told stuff.” 

Rich blinks. The scene in front of him is getting staticky, like in poetry class. It's nothing that intense, just a bit of hallway blending with another bit of hallway. 

“Rich?” 

“I'm good,” Rich says. 

“It's a relief to hear you say that, seeing as you look like you totally aren't.” Christine’s voice is deep, much deeper than usual.

“I’ll see you later.” 

“Nice try. We’re going to the nurse.” It's almost reassuring, the way she says it. 

“Yeah, sure. Why not. Don't want to go to class anyway.” 

“Huh?” 

Rich closes his eyes tightly, then opens them again. Christine is coming up behind him, looking absolutely perplexed. 

“You’re talking to yourself,” she informs him. 

Rich closes his eyes again. 

“Thought you said we were going to the nurse?” Rich says. He rubs his eyes. 

“I didn't, but actually, that sounds like a good idea. Come on. I'll take you.” 

Christine takes hold of Rich’s wrist, tugging him forward, and stopping when he doesn't follow right away. 

“You don't have to come with me,” she tells him, “but I think you should. You’re all weird and out of it.” 

“I'm super fucking out of it,” Rich agrees. “But, I think it's like—” He taps his head. “—something she can't help with, you know?” 

“What do you need?” Christine asks. 

“Some place quiet.” 

“I know a place.”

This time, when Christine tugs on Rich’s wrist, he follows. 

—————-

The place turns out to be backstage, inside one of the expansive prop closets. Christine opens the door, moving away a collection of dusty dresses, and dress coats, leading Rich so far back that he wouldn't be surprised if they ended up in fucking Narnia. 

“Sit down,” Christine says, and Rich does. There's big rubber cow’s head on the floor besides Rich. Christine flops down on the other side of it, patting it gently. 

“Milky White has seen better days,” she whispers. “Don't ask me what happened to his body.” 

“I can't believe you’re dragging me back into the closet,” Rich jokes. “I practically just came out.” 

“Milky White hasn't yet. Poor gay cow. I admire that about you, by the way. That you know what you are, and aren't afraid to say it.” 

“What if I told you I didn't?” Rich asks. “Not about that. Just about everything else.” 

“That’s fine too.” 

Rich rubs his temples. 

“Look. I know you’re looking for quiet, so I'm going to leave you in here. Run some lines. I'll be right outside if you need something, okay?” 

“Is there a play going on?” 

“No! But I can still run lines of plays that I wish were going on, so I’ll be ready, in case they do go on.” 

“Ah.” Rich really should say more. Like, he should tell Christine that it's cool how much she loves plays that aren't happening, because it is, but he wasn't lying when he said he needed quiet. 

Christine smiles, pats him on the shoulder, and slips out. 

Rich slips out too, but in a different way.


	4. Chapter 4

The school nurse is a short, tired looking woman dressed in hospital green. Her name is Rachel. Jeremy is on first name basis with her. She barely looks up at him as he enters, gesturing with a towards the cot in the back of the office, then going back to her paperwork. 

Before the Squip happened, Rachel had already been used to Jeremy taking refuge on that cot sometimes, when his anxiety got too bad. In the first weeks after getting the Squip out, school had been pretty touch and go, with a lot of great days mixed in with nearly as many where Jeremy just hung around with Rachel the entire day, not even speaking because it was too hard. 

The good thing about being super predictable about his nurse visits is that Jeremy can slip in barely noticed, and take time to sort himself out in his own way. The bad things are manifold, like how he didn't exactly _have_ a way of sorting himself out, other than waiting for the feeling of mounting panic to pass, and then fighting past the disgust that usually settles afterwords. The other issue is that Jeremy figures that he has very little chance of being noticed, should he come in with an actual problem, like a heart attack, or an asthma attack, or severed limb or whatever. 

But it's cool. He can just hang out on the cot. 

Michael clears his throat. 

Okay. Maybe not. 

“Um…” says Jeremy.

“Head wound,” Michael finishes. 

“Slight head wound.” 

“Possible concussion.” 

“It's not—”

Rachel-the-nurse takes Jeremy’s chin in her hand, examining Jeremy’s forehead, which has a visible bruise, but nothing worth calling a concussion. 

“How did it happen?” 

“I tripped.” Jeremy is glad that Michael isn't looking at him this time. He's never been good at lying to Michael, but he needs time to figure this out. He's not cool with Rich beating him up, but there might be something to it, the same way there's something to it when Jeremy catches himself slouching and jerks back into the correct posture, prodded by phantom shocks that aren't really there. It might be a little bit like how, the other day, he arrived half an hour late to a date with Christine, because a voice in the back of his head kept reminding him to make her think he wasn't coming, or else she wouldn't be happy when he did. 

“Have you been experiencing any dizziness?” the nurse asks. 

(“Yes,” Rich mutters to himself.)

“No,” says Jeremy. “I mean, maybe? I don't know. Define dizziness.” 

(“Define dizziness? Seriously?”)

“It's the state of being dizzy.” 

“Oh. Okay. I'm not sure.” 

“Nausea?” 

(“Not unless I open my eyes. It sucks seeing two places at once.”)

“A little at first. Not now.”

“Drowsiness?” 

(“If you ask what drowsiness means I'm going to smash your head in again.”)

“That's the state of being drowsy,” Rachel-the-nurse adds dryly. 

“Right. Yeah. I knew that.”

“Well, are you drowsy?” 

“I'm not sure. Probably not. No. I'm not… um… drowsy, or whatever.” 

Jeremy shifts his face out of the nurse’s grasp. 

“So, what do you wanna do about it?” 

(“Isn't that your job, lady?”)

“Sit down I guess?” 

“Can I keep him company?” Michael asks. “I've got a concussion too.” 

Rachel-the-nurse nods, head inclined towards the cot, so both boys sit down, one on either end. 

“I'm okay,” Jeremy whispers. “You don't have to babysit me.” 

“This has nothing to do with you. At least not anymore. Kinda worried and all, but at this point, I'm just trying to get out of Creative Writing. I'm not creative, I don't write, and Mrs. Maguire sucks donkey balls. You know how it is.” 

As he speaks, Michael leans back on the cot, arms crossed behind his head. 

“You better not sleep,” Jeremy says. “You’re not supposed to do that if you have a concussion, even a fake one.” 

“Says the guy who doesn't know what dizzy means.” 

Jeremy’s face heats up, but it's not unpleasant, because it's just Michael, and there’s something about the other boy’s teasing that… well, it works, maybe especially when it's about things that Jeremy doesn't know, or doesn't do right, because it almost sorta kinda implies that Michael _does_ know things, and he can make them happen in the way that they should. 

(Rich rubs his temples. Jeremy is too fucking much sometimes.) 

“I know what dizzy means,” Jeremy protests. 

“Just not if you are.” 

“Right.” It sounds weird, and Jeremy knows it. He starts to pick at his sweater, and then stops himself. He's not allowed to do that. He starts to bite his lip, then stops himself. He's already done a lot of that today. Anyway, Michael should understand that sometimes when you feel a lot of things, it's hard to sort out what exactly it is you’re feeling. 

The hairs on the back of Jeremy’s neck stand on end. He turns around, looking at the wall, for a presence that isn't there. 

“What's up?” Michael asks. “You’re being hella shady.” 

“I don't know, man,” Jeremy says. “It's like I'm being watched.” 

“In a Squip way?” 

“No. It's more passive than that. Like, it's not trying to get me to do anything. Just weird.” Jeremy scratches the back of his neck, trying to alleviate the uncanny, tingling feeling there. 

“Don't you dare go all creepy on me,” Michael warns, pulling up his hood. 

“Huh?” 

“I figure you get one weird science fiction type adventure per lifetime. If you start attracting ghosts or something, I'm fucking done.” 

(“Ass,” Rich whispers.)

“Uh-huh,” Jeremy agrees half-heartedly. It's never nice to listen to Michael talk like that, but he probably doesn't mean anything by it, and even if he's being serious, it's no less than Jeremy deserves. 

(Rich gets an idea. It's not the nicest idea, but it's an important one, like an experiment, not that he's smart enough to do a proper experiment. Rich is stupid, and that may well be his only clearly defined personality straight, other than the bisexuality thing.)

Michael’s face seems to soften. He doesn't apologize, but pats the bed next to him for Jeremy to lie down, and Jeremy does.

(“Boo,” Rich whispers, concentrating on the nurse’s office, and the cot, and Michael’s solid body next to his.)

Jeremy jumps.

“You sure you’re alright, man?” Michael asks. 

“Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, I'd love to know what you think. Encouragement makes me write faster.


	5. Chapter 5

**Freshman Year**

The ATM behind the 7-11 has a crack running through its screen, hairline thin, but forking out at the tip, like lightning. The scent of car exhaust sharpens the air, mingling with the rubbered saltiness of convenience store hot dogs. Rich grasps his dad’s credit card so tightly that the edge digs into his sweaty fist. In the distance, a group of older teens mills around a beat up van, laughing about some ugly girl who they totally all did _stuff_ with. 

“She's a dog,” one of them says.

“She's like five hundred pounds,” says another.

“She should’ve paid me for the favor,” sneers a third. 

“She should’ve paid me for the favor,” Rich mouths, copying the other boy’s inflections as best he can, and getting it wrong anyway. He squeezes the credit card even tighter. He doesn't sound like a man. He sounds like somebody’s dumb kid brother. That's why Rich can't get girls, even fat ones. Even just as friends. 

He wonders if this girl actually liked any of these jerks, and if so, what she liked about them. What would Rich’s life be, if he could get her to like him too? Would she talk to him like a human? Laugh at his jokes? Bond with him about how they were both on the outside, in a way, simultaneously sick to death all the BS, and wanting so bad to be a part of it? 

“Go home,” she might say. “Don't steal your dad’s money on a probably fake solution. Let's frolic across a meadow and be misfits together. I’ll teach you how to have hobbies and interests.” 

Fat chance. For one thing, Rich wouldn't have anything to offer her in return. There's so much emptiness in him, that he's afraid one day it'll burst out of his skin, and consume the entire world. 

The ATM is so old. The words and images are clunky and pixilated, like a windows computer from the late 90s. Rich’s dad’s PIN number is his dead mom’s birthday. Rich slides the card into the machine, and types in the numbers. He looks around him, before entering in that he wants eight hundred dollars. Is it even legal to take that much from an ATM? The whole stolen credit card bit is definitely illegal, but it'd probably be less suspicious if Rich just needed ten bucks, or even twenty. The shuffling sound that the machine makes as it counts Rich’s cash leaves his stomach churning. He leans against it, hiding the number on the screen with his body, expecting lights and sirens at any moment. 

Eight hundred dollars. 

Eight hundred freaking dollars. 

There are a lot of things that a cool eight hundred could buy, mind control pills not withstanding. Maybe Rich could just take the money, and run away— start a new life. The problem there is that wherever he goes, he’ll still be himself. He'll still be Richard Goranski, five foot three inches tall, barely literate, with a lisp and an alcoholic time bomb in his blood stream, just waiting to transform him into a carbon copy of his father, if he didn't do something criminally stupid first, like maybe become a homosexual or something. 

The ATM goes quiet. Rich shoves the money in his pocket without counting it, and grabs the card. He’ll have to throw it out somewhere. If he replaces it in his dad’s wallet, there’ll be no pretending that the money was stolen by anyone else. 

The next day, Rich shows the money to Dustin’s friend Jaime in the janitor’s closet at school. 

“Hey, thanks man,” the other boy says, sounding genuinely grateful. Jaime is tall, but he always slouches into his black hoodie. He's the kind of guy who flies so far under the radar that Rich has never noticed him before, but Dustin says he's good at finding out who has problems, and offering to fix them… for a fee, of course. 

“Thanks for what?” Rich spits out. “I'm not giving you a cent until you give me the Squip.” 

Laughter. It's really not fair. How is Rich even supposed to stand up for himself, when that's the best reaction he can get? 

“I mean it,” Rich continues anyway. 

“Hold your horses,” Jaime says, as he begins to rummage through his bag. 

Out comes a notebook, followed by a binder, and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Under that, there's a yellow sweater that has seen better days. 

“Do you use it?” Rich asks in a whisper. Jaime isn't the picture of coolness that Dustin described when he first told Rich about Squips, but Rich would gladly pay eight hundred dollars for the chance to be him. In fact, there are only a handful of people that Rich wouldn't pay eight hundred dollars for the chance to be. 

“What do you think?” Jaime asks. “Do I look like I do? Are you catching evil rockstar vibes?” 

“Evil?” 

“Ok, so not _evil_. Guys who take it tend to become kinda… well, it's hard to describe. They get some asshole tendencies, but in a good way. Point is, I can't promise the new you will be nice one hundred percent of the time, but don’t worry, every one will dig the hell out of whatever shit you pull from here on out, I swear. And no, I didn't take it, but I'm not you, right? I only have the one, and I've been saving it for somebody just like you. Somebody who really needs it.” 

“Thanks for rubbing it in,” Rich says, as if he's not practically salivating. 

“Just being truthful. Ah-ha!” Jaime pulls a green bottle out of his bag, brandishing it like a prize. 

“That's… um…” 

“The Mountain Dew is to activate it.” Jaime reaches into his pocket. He holds out his hand to show Rich a grey oblong pill, that one hundred percent does not look like it's worth eight-hundred dollars. “I know, I know,” says Jaime. “It looks like a winter green tic-tac, but I swear, this tic-tac’s gonna blow your mind.” 

“Give it over!” 

“The money first.” 

Rich hands him the money. A few minutes of counting later, and Jaime hands him his prize. 

“Okay,” says Jaime. “Don't take it for a few minutes. I wanna book it the fuck out of here. You might wanna get down on the floor, and cover your mouth. Hear it hurts like a motherfucker. No pain, no gain, huh?” 

“I guess. I mean, yes. Yeah, definitely. Heck, if it kills me, that’ll still be a step up.” 

“See?” Jaime says. “That's the spirit. That's how I knew you needed it. And if you hate it, the antidote'll set you back just four hundred.” 

“I'll never need it. I mean, if this works, I’ll totally owe you one.” 

“Nah, dude. You’re good. We’re cool. I mean _chill_.” Jaime winks at Rich, and slips out of the closet. 

It's several minutes before Rich can slow down his breathing, but he does, and he swallows the pill that will change his life down past a lump in his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

Rich sits in the closet for thirty minutes. At least that’s where his body sits. His mind has settled somewhere behind Jeremy’s eyes, and is cuddled up next to Michael, because why the hell not? At least it’s relaxing, now that Michael’s stopped giving him ( **Jeremy** ) grief about how fucking weird his issues are. More than relaxing, it's peaceful. If Jeremy’s mind could be like this all the time, Rich could stand it. What Jeremy is thinking is that he's tired, and that he has a headache, but not such a bad one that he couldn't go to class if he really wanted to. He's thinking Michael-liking thoughts, which are way better than Jeremy-hating thoughts. 

“I'm in the closet,” Rich whispers to himself. The nurse’s office is strong. 

“I'm in the closet,” Rich whispers again. He paws blindly at the floor. It's dusty and rough. He closes his eyes tight, then opens them again, and this time he can see Milky White. “We’re in the closet together,” he tells the cow head, giving it a pat. 

Deep breaths. The air is not antiseptic. It smells like mildew. Thank Christ. 

A knock on the door. Oh yeah. Rich is with Christine. 

A louder knock. “Rich? Are you alive in there?” 

Rich pushes himself off the ground. He wipes his dusty hands on his cargo pants, and then just stops and stares at them. They’re the green camouflage ones, very much his, or maybe very much his squip’s. Shit. Well, at least they aren't Jeremy’s. 

The door swings open. 

“Um…” 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Christine repeats. “Last bell is about to ring. I can't believe I skipped a class. I've never done that before.” 

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” 

“I've never felt so rebellious. Well, except for last year when I told the principal that Rocky Horror was a play about the dangers of Rocky Mountain spotted fever, you know, to get her to sign off on a Halloween showing? That was pretty rebellious, and it would’ve been even better if the theatre department had rustled up enough money to do it. And actors. Actors are important.” 

Christine flashes Rich a smile, offering her hand. “Your eyes are all weird and glazed over,” she informs Rich, leading him out of the prop closet. 

(“Dude, last bell’s about to go,” Michael informs Jeremy. “Are we blowing this joint or not?”

“Is that code for something?”)

Rich clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes. 

“Rich?” 

“Some _bitches_ don't know when to shut up and sit still.” 

Christine lets go of Rich’s hand. 

“No, not you. Sorry. I meant… uh. Brain bitches.” 

“Brain bitches,” Christine says slowly. “Squip interference is the worst. Do you mind me saying that to you? I know we haven't talked about it much, but I'd like to think that's something we can talk to each other about.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Rich looks around. The walls waver between white and brown. Jeremy is walking, Rich isn't, and Rich is this close to getting fucking motion sick. “Y’know,” he says, “You don't blow joints. You inhale them.” 

“Uh-huh,” Christine agrees, but she's scrutinizing Rich’s face. “My dads are picking me up from school today, and I want you to come with us. I don't think you should be alone. Don't talk about joints in the car. They'd freak.” 

Rich nods. 

“We’re going to figure this out,” Christine promises.


End file.
